


How to Lose a Nemesis in 50 Days

by AuditoryCheesecake, uniqueinalltheworld



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoribull - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, F/M, Halward Pavus' A+ Parenting, Literally the worst superhero names, M/M, Modern AU, The story is not actually in script format we swear, superhero au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-04-25 08:13:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4952989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuditoryCheesecake/pseuds/AuditoryCheesecake, https://archiveofourown.org/users/uniqueinalltheworld/pseuds/uniqueinalltheworld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How many super teams are in your city? How many vigilante licenses have been issued in your area in the past two months? How often is your place of work a super-powered battleground?<br/>If you’re living in Denerim, these are questions you need to know the answers to if you want to get insurance or a date. And, of course, you’re less likely to get either the more supers you’re around. If you’re probably about to get frozen or crushed or held hostage, people are just plain unwilling to commit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New Kid on the Block

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secret identities, cybernetic eyes, complete invulnerability to physical harm, and too many moving boxes. You know, neighbor stuff.

\---Excerpt from the transcript of the popular radio broadcast _This Shit is Weird: Conversations With Heroes Among Us_ 7, Harvestmere, 14:40 Powers---

V. TETHRAS: How many super teams are in your city? How many vigilante licenses have been issued in your area in the past two months? How often is your place of work a super-powered battleground?  
If you’re living in Denerim these are questions you need to know the answers to, if you want to get insurance, or a date. And, of course, you’re less likely to get either the more supers you’re around. If you’re likely to get frozen or crushed or held hostage, people are just plain unwilling to commit.  
Take it from me, Varric Tethras, your personal window into the bizarre, usually-on-fire world of the supers among us.  
Tune in every second Wednesday for my latest tale of dashing bravery, the story of _your_ intrepid reporter exploring the high-stakes world of established superhero guilds like The Hand of the Maker, Montisimard and the occasional friendly neighborhood vigilante so that _you_ know what’s going on when the L train is late on Thursday morning.  
Tonight, I’m joined by local vigilante team B &D the Superbuds, better known as Blackwall and the Dawnstone Dragon.

BLACKWALL: We really don’t go by the Superbuds.

D. DRAGON: That’s the name on our vigilante registration form. Of course we go by the Superbuds. It’s cute. 

BLACKWALL: A form you filled out without my input. I never agreed to be a Superbud.

V.TETHRAS: Well folks, you see it’s not all domestic bliss, even in an up-and-coming team like this. Tell me, you two, do you ever butt heads on the battlefield? 

D. DRAGON: One time, I headbutted him right into one of those guys from Tevinter-- What’s their guild called again? The creepy one.

BLACKWALL: Magisterium. 

D. DRAGON: Yeah. One of the guys from the Magisterium. It worked just like those clicking desk toys with the little balls. Wham--Klonk! And the guy went out like a light! Kind of sad he didn’t flip over though.

V.TETHRAS: Well, those guys tend to focus less on the physical side of things. You’re both close-range, melee types, yeah? What made you go for that unconventional team-up? Most independent super groups have a healer or at least someone with ranged powers.

BLACKWALL: We really don’t need a healer. I’m pretty indestructible.

D. DRAGON: He totally is! One time I threw him into a concrete wall and it just crumbled! He got up and just brushed himself off like it was no big thing. Totally badass!

BLACKWALL: I don’t even bruise.

D. DRAGON: I totally do. I’m sorry you radio people can’t see all my great scars. Each one has a story, you know.

V.TETHRAS: And what about that crazy cybernetic eye? Care to share the story about that?

D. DRAGON: No.

V. TETHRAS:

V.TETHRAS (clearing throat): ...Well, that’s all the time I have for today, folks. This has been Varric Tethras for Inquisition radio, I’ve been joined today by Blackwall and the Dawnstone Dragon, heroes of eastern Chantry Garden and south of 5th street. Next time, I’ll be exploring the underbelly of one of the most powerful, and frightening, guilds around, the Magisterium.  
\---End Transcript--- 

Bull and Thom left the studio side by side, walking their powerful heroes’ strut. The mild-mannered reporters parted around them, whispering. Thom eyed his friend a little nervously. Bull’s normally cheerful expression was back firmly in place, and he made flirtatious comments to the elven redhead at the reception desk as they passed. And the blond dwarven delivery boy. And the chubby human woman who held open the door for them. 

Despite his casual demeanor, Thom could see Bull’s cybernetic eye working overtime, scanning everyone they passed for possible threats. His metal arm was on low alert as well, Thom knew, the biotech metal shifting slightly as they moved.

“You had to know he’d ask about the eye,” Thom said at last.

Bull grunted an affirmative. “I knew. I just didn’t want to talk about it.”

Silence. Not for the first time, Blackwall wished he were telepathic rather than invincible. Bull winked at a passing brunette. With the cybernetic laser eye. That he didn’t want to talk about. 

“Next time we do an interview, we’ll tell them ahead of time not to ask,” Thom said. 

“Yeah, that sounds good. We should have thought of that this round.” Bull smiled more genuinely at him. 

“I’ll talk to Josephine about it this afternoon.”

Bull eyed him speculatively. “I thought our next meeting was scheduled for later in the month?” The edges of his mouth twitched in a smirk.

“Well, I uh,” Thom cleared his throat. “I mean, it seems important that I call her right away about this.”

“I don’t know,” Bull drawled. “Maybe I should tell her myself, seeing as it’s my eye...” His grin widened at Thom’s consternation. 

“It’s really no trouble for me to do it,” 

“Well... In that case, it’s a pretty personal thing. Maybe you should tell her face to face. Over coffee?” 

“What an excellent idea.”

Thankfully, when they reached the elevator, it was empty. Thom pushed the button for the roof and sagged against the mirrored wall. Bull raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m not walking down the street in broad daylight only wearing _spandex_.” He told the Qunari. “We’re superheroes, we’re going over the rooftops.”

“You can’t jump across rooftops,” Bull pointed out.

Thom eyed his dramatic sliver and blue costume critically, examining the stitching on his gloves. “I’m not going to jump.”

“You can’t seriously tell me you want me to carry you across the rooves of Denerim in my arms like a swooning maiden.” 

“I doubt anyone would mistake me for a maiden.” The elevator doors opened. Blackwall stepped out. “Just get us a few blocks away so we can change.”

“For a guy who can’t be harmed you’ve got a pretty fragile grip on your masculinity there, Thom.”

“I have other people to hold my masculinity for me.” 

Bull bellowed goodnaturedly and slung Thom over his shoulder.

 

In the relative privacy of a dark alley, they pulled their civilian clothes on over their costumes. Bull carefully centered his eyepatch and then began his battle with his hoodie. “Those things look kind of awful, you know.” Thom told his friend, ignoring the sound of ripping fabric. “Just accept you weren’t meant to wear hoods.”

“Nah, I got it.” Bull finally straightened the carefully magled hood, his horns sticking out of the holes he’d made. ”Besides. How else will I protect my secret identity?”

Thom decided that he would leave that statement where it lay and bent to lace up his sneakers.

They jogged out into the street, blending into the crowd, as inconspicuous as they could reasonably expect to be. Thom almost bumped into a kid just standing in the middle of the sidewalk, but he dodged aside at the last moment. “Watch out for the birds.” He thought he heard him say, ”they’re terribly lonely.” but when he looked back, the weird kid was gone.

 

The bathroom door was broken. Again. Well, not entirely broken, but now more useful as a window and/or open passageway to the other room than as a door. “Oh, I uh, forgot about that,” Bull mumbled as he sheepishly began clearing bits of door and crushed alarm clock into the trash can. 

Thom sighed and dialed the superintendent. Luckily for them, they’d actually rescued her from a runaway train, so she was alright with fixing super-powered accidents. Thom squinted at Bull, then at Bull’s bedroom door. “Did you throw your alarm clock _through_ the wall?”

“Maybe?” Bull eyed the bits of drywall littering the floor. “I’ll go get the broom.”

That’s what he gets for having an overpowered cyborg for a roommate. Honestly, Thom was mostly surprised by the durability of the five-royal alarm clock. “Hey Threnn, it’s Blackwall,” he told the superintendent's voicemail. “Call me back when you get this, just letting you know we’re doing some more remodeling in the apartment. Add two pro bono repairs to my tab. 405 has a leak, right? I’ll do that this weekend.”

Bull lifted the trash bag in a gesture of peace. “I’ll just be taking this outside…”

Thom was still grumbling into the phone as Bull closed the door behind him as quietly as he could. It was late afternoon, so luckily, Mrs. Wynne would probably be taking her nap and wouldn’t stop him to ask awkward questions and feel his biceps.

He trotted down the stairs and out to the back, holding the door open for Fiona as she struggled with her groceries and squirming toddler. Bull crouched down to look the kid in the eye. “You’re gonna be so handsome and probably tragically heterosexual when you grow up.” 

Fiona laughed at him and little Al just said, “What’s tragic?”

“You’ll understand someday.” Bull said in his best Mysterious Adult voice and Al frowned at him.

“Hopefully he will not,” Fiona raised an eyebrow at Bull.

“Hopefully.” Bull ruffled Al’s hair and sent them on their way. 

Tossing the trash into the dumpster, Bull wiped his hands on his shorts and congratulated himself on only destroying one wall today.

Inside, he was about to head back up the stairs when he heard a small crash and some creative cursing. Intrigued, he went to investigate. He didn’t know of anyone in the building who spoke that much Tevene.

Bull rounded the corner to the small entranceway and headed for his mailbox. He almost walked straight into an unfamiliar man. The guy was holding a stack of small cardboard boxes and struggling to push the elevator button without dropping them. Bull watched as he gave up trying to hold the tower one-handed and started trying to hit the button with his hip. It was… interesting to watch, but Bull didn’t think he was going to be successful. He cleared his throat and the other man spun around quickly. Bull had a brief moment of consternation; it didn’t seem possible that the pile of boxes wouldn’t have toppled with the motion. 

The young and obviously Tevinter man stared at Bull’s chest for a moment before looking up to meet his eyes, cheeks a little flushed. Bull gave him what Thom had once termed his “come-let-me-tie-you-up-and-fuck-you” smile. “Need a hand?” He asked.

“I suppose I would appreciate that, yes.” Said the the other man. His accent made his words seem a bit clipped.

“Want me to grab some boxes?” He was going to drop them eventually, Bull could tell.

“Er, no. I can-- um.” The ‘Vint held the stack a bit closer to himself, looking unsure. 

“It’s all good,” Bull said, stepping back a bit. “I’m The Iron Bull, by the way.”

“You’re-- Your name is--” Something in the other man’s face cracked and he burst into hysterical sniggers. Bull watched him laugh, pleased. He was dressed well, but seemed a bit travel worn, and his laughter seemed to have a bit of a tired edge to it. 

“I’m Dorian,” he said when he could breathe. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, The Iron Bull.” His hazel eyes twinkled and Bull grinned back at him. 

“Can I get the button for you?” Bull asked after a moment too long.

Dorian smiled and nodded. “It is difficult to move things when my hands are full like this,” he said. There was a note of dry humor in his voice, like he was in on some sort of joke that Bull was missing. Or maybe he just talked like that.

The elevator arrived promptly and Dorian finagled himself inside. “Are you going up as well?” He asked. 

Bull shook his head, maintaining his grin. “Nah. I’m gonna take the stairs. Gotta stay in shape.” He slapped his gut for emphasis, hoping that the sound covered his mechanical arm’s slight whirr. 

Dorian didn’t look as if he believed him, but didn’t seem the type to pry, either. “All right, then. I suppose I’ll see you at the top.” His hazel eyes lingered on Bull’s eyepatch until they were separated by the slide of the elevator doors.

If Bull forgot to actually check the mail and jogged a little going up the stairs to be sure he beat the elevator to the third floor, well, it could only be good for his health, couldn’t it?

“I hope you don’t actually expect me to call you ‘The Iron Bull’ every time I say your name,” Dorian drawled before the elevator had even fully opened. Bull was certain that Dorian had fixed his hair since Bull had last seen him, though he had no idea how Dorian had managed it with the boxes still in both arms. 

“Only in bed,” Bull answered calmly. “How’d you even know I’d be standing here?” He asked over Dorian’s sputtering. 

“Call it my secret power.” Dorian said, recovering. He smiled again. “I can always tell where the second most attractive man in the room will be.” He sighed theatrically. “It’s a blessing and a curse.”

“And here I am, waiting for the first to get out of the elevator,” Bull smirked.

Dorian blushed again. Bull thought it was a good look for him. 

“Are you moving into 305?” The apartment directly across from Bull and Thom’s was the only one on the floor currently vacant. 

“No, I’m squatting in the basement,” Dorian answered breezily.

They stood between their doors for a long moment. Dorian cleared his throat. “Is there one more favor you could do for me?” He asked, seeming suddenly a bit nervous.

“Sure, always happy to help a neighbor.” Bull smiled.

Dorian turned slowly. “My, uh, my key is in my pocket. Can you get it for me?” He looked at Bull over his shoulder. Bull wondered if he was imagining the slight smirk on Dorian’s face.

“Oh, uh, I can,” Bull coughed. “Uh, I can do that.” Or, at least he had been able to once. When there was blood in his extremities and not his groin. 

Bull reached his hand--his real hand--into Dorian’s back pocket. He tried to make the retrieval clinical. He tried, though he couldn’t help the back of his hand brushing Dorian’s ass in those tight jeans. Nor could he help the surprising warmth of that ass, or the things that warmth did to him. He also, admittedly, took his sweet time about it. 

“Your uh-- your key.” He sort of thrust the offending object at Dorian, who only stared at him. 

“You might try placing it inside the door.” He hefted the stack of boxes. 

“Right. I’ll just do that.” Bull switched the key to his left hand--the one controlled by motors and little gyroscopes that never did stupid things like bend keys irreparably into locks just because its wearer had super strength and was nervous. 

Dorian slipped past him, knocking him teasingly with his hip. Inside, he put his impressive stack of boxes on the dining room table, one of the only pieces of furniture in the apartment. He turned back to Bull, who was trying to lean casually on the doorframe. “Well, best get going. I have quite a few more boxes to unpack.” Dorian rubbed his neck, the gesture somehow simultaneously self conscious and calculated. He knew his angles, Bull had to admit.

“Yeah, of course.” Bull was conscious of echoing Dorian’s action, and wondered if Dorian appreciated his view of the Bull’s biceps as well, “I’ll just be over there, y’know, across the hall. If you need anything. You know, like a cup of sugar, rough sex, help carrying boxes. Neighbor stuff.” 

Dorian smiled, a little softer than before. “I will.” he said, and closed the door, careful not to knock into the Iron Bull.

With the flimsy wood as a barrier between them, Dorian took a deep breath and grinned fiercely. He resisted the urge to laugh maniacally, but he did indulge in a bit of villainous hand rubbing. It was all going according to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are back! And with a brand new AU for you! 
> 
> Due to time constraints from A's recent/currently happening cross-country move and U's senior thesis work, Nemesis will be updating every OTHER Wednesday, rather than every week. We will, however, be consistently updating. 
> 
> We would also like to take this opportunity to remind you that our personal projects TOTALLY STILL EXIST and both of us have chapters going up in the near future. (as in, they are not abandoned we SWEAR). Links in the end-of-work notes if you wanna check them out.


	2. Don't Trust the Guy in Apartment 305

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian does some unpacking! Ulterior motives abound!

\---Excerpt from the transcript of the popular radio broadcast _This Shit is Weird: Conversations With Heroes Among Us_ 21, Harvestmere, 14:40 Powers---

V. TETHRAS: Hi there folks and welcome to today’s episode. We have a very special guest here today, with us all the way from the Magisterium guild in Tevinter. They call him The Peacock.

THE PEACOCK: It’s a pleasure to be here, Mr. Tethras. Really. I’m not frozen at all. 

V. TETHRAS: For those of you at home, I should inform you that The Peacock’s outfit, while intimidating, does seem more suited to balmy Tevinter. Are you planning to change your look at all while you’re here? Perhaps cover both arms? It is better for the snow.

PEACOCK: My dear Mr. Tethras, one does not change for the whims of the outside world. True power is being able to change the world at one’s whim.

V. TETHRAS: Right. My mistake. That outlook’s not frightening at all. So, aside from planning catastrophic changes in weather events, what brings you to snowy Denerim?

PEACOCK: I’m afraid I can’t say much more than it’s the guild’s business and my pleasure.

V. TETHRAS: Sounds like espionage to me. Trying to ferret out another guild’s secrets?

PEACOCK: Hardly. I’d be an awful spy to announce myself like this, don’t you think? 

V. TETHRAS: Well, your outfit certainly doesn’t say “sneaky and not memorable.”

PEACOCK: Precisely. This is not the sort of thing one wears on a covert mission. The guilds of Denerim have nothing to fear from me. Scientific exchange is hardly villainous. 

V. TETHRAS: ...I’m sure. Your guild does have something of a “villainous” reputation though. What do you say about that?

PEACOCK: Well, I wouldn’t be so crass as to suggest the good people of this city are narrow-minded and prejudiced simply because we’re a foreign group...

V. TETHRAS: But you’d be fine if someone else did.

PEACOCK: Is that what you’re suggesting, Mr. Tethras?

V. TETHRAS: I said no such thing. At least, not out loud. But I think you may encounter some small pockets of distrust. Like, say, the city of Denerim.

PEACOCK (laughing): It takes more than a small pocket of distrust to get to me. It would have to be at least a large purse.

V. TETHRAS: You do have to admit, though, it’s not all unwarranted. your group has taken on some... let’s say “unsavory” contracts in the past. Project Venatori, for example?

PEACOCK: As if no group from Denerim has ever engaged in questionable behavior, Mr. Tethras. I recall an incident at the White Spire experimental facility not long ago? Goodness, I don’t believe the guild responsible for that debacle is even around anymore. 

V. TETHRAS: We all remember the White Spire incident, yes. The Circle disbanded afterwards. Or at least what was left of it. 

PEACOCK: My point is merely that we all have periods in our histories that we are less than proud of. 

V. TETHRAS: Most people would say that large-scale mind control and weaponizing the Blight are worth a little more than being brushed off with a “we’re less than proud of that.” 

PEACOCK: Oh, don’t forget the blood rituals. We’re also less than proud of the blood rituals.

V. TETHRAS: Well, that’s all the time we have for today. Thanks for coming in. This has been your host, Varric Tethras, interviewing the Magisterium’s one and only Tevinter Peacock. Tune in next time for a chat with the mysterious masked vigilante, “The Dread Wolf.” 

\---End Transcript---

Dorian Pavus was having a spectacularly good day. For starters, a good portion of his wardrobe had finally arrived from Tevinter, albeit in enormously heavy boxes. Enormously heavy boxes which he was about to turn into his second success of the day. He did hope The Dawnstone Dragon-- pardon him, the _expertly disguised_ Iron Bull-- and his roommate showed up soon. Pretending to struggle with boxes he could launch into space with telekinesis was beginning to wear on him. 

“Need a hand there, big guy?” 

Dorian suppressed a smile into his mustache. “Of course not. I’m managing quite fine on my own, thank you.” He made a show of lifting one box up one step. It really was quite heavy when he didn’t use his powers.

“Okay, well, call us if you need any help.”

“Call _him_ ,” Thom grunted. “I’ve already got a plumbing situation Threnn asked me to deal with.”

Damn. That wasn’t supposed to go like that. Where did the Iron Bull get off respecting people’s wishes when he was supposed to insist? “Wait,” Dorian said melodramatically, “I suppose I could use a bit of help if you’ve the time.”

The Iron Bull practically bounced over and swept up a box under each arm. “I’ve got all the time in the world for my newest neighbor,” he said with a blinding grin. “What’s even in these? Bricks?”

“Clothes,” said Dorian and Thom in unison. They grimaced at one another. “And some books!” Dorian added defensively. Actually, it was at least half books. Maybe two thirds. He liked books, though “clever and fastidious” didn’t help him establish his current persona.

“Well-dressed _and_ well-read!” Bull smiled, nudging Thom. Thom didn’t budge. Impressive. He didn’t appear to be endowed with any sort of super-strength, however. Dorian made a mental note to comb through the Denerim supers registry for clues at a later date. His files on the Dawnstone Dragon’s partner were nebulous at best. 

Thom rolled his eyes. “Well if you’re set, I’m taking the elevator.”

“Sure thing,” said Bull. He adjusted the boxes in his arms. “These probably won’t fit on there anyways. Better take the stairs.”

Dorian and Thom both raised an eyebrow at him. Dorian didn’t like all this synchronicity. 

“Sure,” said Thom at last. “Would probably be really taxing for you to turn sideways.” 

“Exactly. See you upstairs.” Bull whistled as he headed for the stairwell. 

Dorian sighed and followed him. It could be worse, he reminded himself, they could have taken an apartment on the fourth floor. And the view was nice.

 

Thom spent a long time on his outfit. He tried on three different flannels and considered shaving. He then picked up the picture of himself, shaven, that he kept in the bathroom to look at whenever he considered shaving, shuddered, and considered burning his razors instead. Also, he reminded himself, Josephine had once called his beard “distinguished.” 

He changed his shirt again and took the elevator down to the street, avoiding Bull and the new guy, who he could hear giggling down the hall. Giggling. He did not think that this “Dorian” was a good influence.

He told Josephine as much over coffee, using his irritation to cover up his nervousness. She smiled distractingly. “He’s clearly got some ulterior motive!” He said. “He just _shows up_ after our big interview and just happens to be exactly the Bull’s type?”

“To be fair,” Josephine said sweetly, “Isn’t everyone sort of the Iron Bull’s type?”

“Well, yes, but he was… flirting. Way too much.” He took a drink of his coffee. He’d ordered it strong and black to impress Josephine, but regretted that choice with every sip. 

She traded his cup for her pumpkin spice latte before replying. “The Iron Bull is a … well-built man, you know. It’s possible this Dorian fellow is simply attracted to him.” She coughed delicately. “But, Thom, we were meeting to talk about the team. I’m afraid that getting the name changed would be very long process, and you just don’t have the influence to spare. I’d suggest focusing on building up your reputation before you try to rebrand.”

“It’s not like ‘Superbuds’ is a very good brand to start with.” Thom grumbled. Josephine patted his hand consolingly. It helped quite a bit. “That’s the thing though, we _don’t_ have much of a reputation yet, so what is this guy up to? Is he some creepy fan? A reporter looking for his big break?”

“I know you’re just worried about your friend, Thom.” She smiled and he couldn’t help but smile back. “But the Bull’s an adult. He can handle himself. Not everyone has ulterior motives, and you don’t have to protect him, even if they do.”

Thom remained unconvinced, but the latte and the company were comforting nonetheless.

 

Dorian heard the front door open, and made the stool wobble dangerously, leaning farther forward. There was a gratifying intake of breath from behind him. The picture-- a watercolor he had bought years ago from a street painter in Qarinus-- banged satisfyingly loudly against the still mostly bare wall. It was a shame he would be moving again in just a few months, really. He was terrible at decorating in a timely manner unless he had ulterior motives.

“That really doesn’t look safe.” Even elevated, Dorian had to look up a touch to meet the Bull’s one organic eye. (The laser one was oh-so-cleverly hidden behind an eye patch. Who did he think he was fooling?) “How about I hang that one up for you? Pretty sure I can reach it without a stool.” 

“I’m pretty sure you could hang this on my ceiling without a stool, but it’s the principle of the thing.” Dorian wobbled again. He actually had to consciously avoid using his powers to keep the stool steady as he worked.

“Standing on principle is all well and good as long as you keep both legs in standing condition.” 

Dorian rolled his eyes and then shoved himself too far back. His wobble turned into a fall which turned into the Iron Bull catching him, careful to let Dorian dip a bit further to avoid giving him whiplash due to a midair halt. Dorian was _very_ relieved that worked. Head traumas were not part of the Plan. He stared up at the Bull, slightly breathless.

The Bull stared back down at him, his eye twinkling. “Careful,” he murmured, not putting Dorian down. “That was a close call.”

“I appear to be unscathed, thanks to you.” Dorian considered fluttering his eyelashes, but decided that was probably overkill. The Iron Bull looked worried, rather than seduced. So, really, it didn’t make sense that Dorian was considering fluttering his eyelashes. “You may put me down now,” he told Bull after what may have been too long.

“Right, sorry.” The Bull set Dorian gently on his feet. His hands lingered, like he wasn’t sure Dorian was able to stand on his own. The painting lay face-down on the floor. “Maybe you should sit down for a bit,” the Bull ventured.

“I’m fine, really.” Dorian carefully steadied himself with a hand on the Bull’s chest. “Just a scare.”

“I’m definitely hanging this for you.” The Bull told him with an air of finality. “Just tell me where you want me.” Dorian smirked, and the Bull coughed. He didn’t meet Dorian’s eyes. “Tell me where you want me to put it. Is what I meant to say.” 

Dorian spent a pleasurable fifteen minutes making the Bull move the watercolor around the wall, enjoying how willingly the Bull followed his instructions. The Bull, a touch ironically, had a very good eye for symmetry. Dorian suspected it was the laser eye and robot arm that really helped with centering the picture on the wall, but the Iron Bull was happy to bask in his effusive praise. Dorian resisted the urge to roll his eyes. This was really too easy.

“I do appreciate all your help.” He told the Iron Bull after the painting was hung. “I’d offer you tea, but I’m afraid my kettle’s still packed away somewhere.”

“You’ll just have to come over to my place, then.” The Bull looked sweetly hopeful. Dorian smiled at him and resisted the urge to pat his cheek. It was out of reach anyway.

“Not today, unfortunately. I’ve still got all these books to deal with.” He indicated the large boxes the Bull had brought up the stairs for him. “Thank you.” He said. That was a thing people said in the South, right? “For all your help today. I am glad to have found such a… helpful neighbor.” He let his eyes trail over the Bull, taking in his truly impressive musculature. The Bull blushed. Dorian had never seen a Qunari blush before.

He shut the door behind the Iron Bull, and watched through the peephole as the Qunari reluctantly went back to his own apartment. Dorian almost felt bad for the poor sap.

But he had work to do. Set up in the spare room, disguised as a normal computer, was one of Dorian’s favorite inventions: Undetectable, uninterruptable communication, straight to his father’s office in Tevinter. They’d tested it extensively before it was deemed fit for covert operations, and Dorian swelled with pride every time he remembered his father bestowing him with the machine.

He waved some plates and mugs into the cupboards, just to feel like he’d done _something_ , and checked his hair and makeup before settling down in front of the screen. He entered his credentials and waited for his father to respond, checking his reflection again.

After a minute or two, Halward Pavus’s face materialized onto the screen. “Good afternoon, Father.” Dorian said formally. “I’ve established contact with Target B, and plans for Target A are in progress as we speak. I have an interview with Madame de Fer herself on Tuesday morning.”

His father steepled his fingers. “Good. Remember Dorian, much is riding on the success of this venture. Infiltrating the Montisimard Guild should be your primary focus. Do not allow yourself to be distracted by… dalliances. Acquiring the Qunari technology is a secondary goal, and your… unorthodox technique has already raised some eyebrows. Failure is unacceptable.”

“Of course, Father. I believe it is working though, and by snaring him early, I free myself up to focus on the more important aspects of this expedition.” Halward nodded very slightly, in a way Dorian knew meant approval. “I won’t fail the guild, Father.” He assured him, willing it to be true with every fiber of his being. “I won’t fail you.”

“And your official introduction to the city of Denerim? How are your plans for that?”

Dorian grinned fiercely. “Oh, they won’t be able to forget it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens! 
> 
> Thanks everyone who's read so for, and to all the future readers! I can see you! In the future! We will still be very excited for comments and readers even if it's 2020!  
> (I realize it's not Wednesday for everyone right now-- including Uniqueinalltheworld-- but it still is for Auditorycheesecakes over in Washington State, so never fear, this will be our regular schedule: Every other Wednesday, at a time. A time that occurs during Wednesday.)  
> (I'm just excited about time because of Back to The Future. Don't mind me!)


	3. A Challenger Appears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> \--Introductory message recorded by Mr. Varric Tethras on 5, Firstfall, 14:40 Powers--
> 
> V. TETHRAS: Good afternoon, folks. If you’ve seen any Denerim news show in the last day, you know that my lovely studio was unexpectedly host to more than one special guest, and they got a bit out of hand. While we get everything cleaned up and all our walls back where they belong, please enjoy what we were able to record of yesterday’s show.

\---Excerpt from the transcript of the popular radio broadcast _This Shit is Weird: Conversations With Heroes Among Us_ 4, Firstfall, 14:40 Powers---

V. TETHRAS: Today, I’m joined by one of Denerim’s most enigmatic supers, the Dread Wolf.

D.WOLF: today I am here to discuss issues  
impacting the very fabric of our  
society . I have shocking knowledge  
of enemies among us. The White Spire--  


V. TETHRAS: But you never worked for The White Spire, is that correct?

D. WOLF: I spied upon the perpetrators of  
the incident; Madame Vivienne is  
a reprehensible human being.

V. TETHRAS: Well, you’re just a barrel of laughs, aren’t you?

D.WOLF: I am trying to discuss serious  
matters: abuse, experimentation  
on sentient beings. It enrages me

V. TETHRAS: Are you... doing all right there, buddy? You seem to be... shrinking. Oh, shit!

(loud scraping, accompanied by a series of high pitched barks)

V. TETHRAS: Folks, I’m not going to disclose the Dread Wolf’s shape shifting form, just for liability reasons, but I gotta say, he’s a lot smaller and not nearly as fluffy as I imagined. And-- oh man, folks, breaking news. Literally, breaking through the window. There appears to be some sort of high-powered altercation going on outside--

(Static and shouting)

V. TETHRAS: No one step on the blighted chihuahua! Ahem, sorry folks, we’ll have to cut our show short, we’ve got some surprise visitors. Andraste’s tits, don’t _throw_ people!

(a loud crash follows)

\--End Transcript--

Blackwall slammed through the window, skidding through flimsy cubicles and startled office workers. He got to his feet with a grunt and took stock of his surroundings. He was on the third floor of the Inquisition Media building, he thought. Whichever floor had the radio lab. He dusted himself off and headed back toward the broken window, ready to pay back the rips in his costume. His skin, of course, was fine.

He reached the edge of the building, ready to hop down onto the street-- step off the ledge, really-- he didn’t have to worry about his knees shattering, so he’d long since perfected the dramatic landing. He felt the pull of gravity for one identifiable moment, and then experienced the _very_ unpleasant sensation of being _lifted_ into the air.

“Maker’s balls!” He shouted at the figure he could see standing below him, one fist raised. “Just wait ‘till I get my hands on your scrawny neck!”

“I don’t think I will.” The man… ascended. His green cloak, which looked too long to be practical, rippled dramatically from one shoulder as he rose straight into the air. Blackwall struggled furiously against the invisible grip, but couldn’t even move his fingers.

His assailant’s mask covered most of his face, shimmering iridescent green and blue, but it did not hide his toothy grin. He twirled a finger, and Blackwall was not just hanging in midair, but hanging _upside down_ in midair. He could feel the blood rushing to his head.

“You’re not going to ask me to put you down?” The stranger sounded a little disappointed. “That’s my favorite joke.”

Blackwall spat, and tried to aim it at the shiny blue boots in front of him. He missed by a mile, but the stranger gasped like he’d been slapped in the face. “I now feel entirely justified in doing this,” he informed Blackwall, and snapped his hand forward like he was throwing a javelin. Blackwall sailed back through the shattered window, over the desks and gaping reporters, and crashed through the wall of the recording booth . It didn’t hurt much, but a heavy piece of equipment fell across his torso and knocked the wind out of him.

The reporter who’d interviewed him and Bull, Varric Something, looked down at him with mild concern. “You’re lying on my mic.” He sounded exasperated, which was better than pissed off.

“Sorry. Next time I get thrown through the air I’ll aim for your head.”

Varric snorted and peeked around the debris of his wall. “Oh, I was wondering when he’d show up.”

“You know who that is?” Blackwall joined him, crouching.

“The Peacock. New import from Tevinter. Bastard told me he wasn’t out to be a super villain.”

“Well, he’s definitely living up to his name.” The Peacock (that was almost worse than the _Superbuds_ ) was gesticulating dramatically at the stunned office workers, his clothes shimmering and his cloak flapping. “Is he _monologuing_?”

That was something Blackwall could work with. This asshole’s telekinesis might have him at a disadvantage at long distances, but a monologuing supervillain was always easy to surprise. Amateur mistake.

He patted Varric on the shoulder and skulked off through the rows of desks, staying low enough to avoid being seen. When he got close enough-- it was obvious that the guy was off on some sort of rant, he wasn’t interested-- he hunched his shoulders and got ready to tackle.

Dorian wasn’t mad, he was disappointed. He’d really hoped he’d make his dramatic entrance into the Denerim super scene somewhere more… dramatic. But no, it was the blighted _radio station._ The one he’d _already been to._ He was disappointed, and he told everyone who was listening. That they were listening to him at all was very gratifying. He’d never gotten to be the center of attention quite like this before. Maybe he should throw people through windows more often.

“You see,” he told a flabbergasted young man with striking blue eyes, “I’m new in town and--” he was hit by a human-shaped sledgehammer. Too shocked to retaliate, he locked eyes with Blackwall as he _lifted_ Dorian and hurled them both out the window.

He had a split second to react before they hit the ground, and he used it to throw up a rough bubble of force around the two of them. He landed roughly on his back, but not as badly as he could have, and knocked Blackwall away from him with a blast of mental energy.

The older man clutched at his head, and Dorian felt a stab of guilt. He hadn’t meant to really hurt him, just get enough distance between them that Blackwall wouldn’t recognize him. It wouldn’t do for him to blow Dorian’s cover right off the bat.

Though he had softened the fall a bit, Dorian felt a twinge of pain in his side as he sat up.It would probably bruise. Typical. He checked that his mask was still in place, and frowned at the rip that had appeared in one of his gloves.

He heard the Bull-- the Dawnstone Dragon, sorry-- before he saw him. He’d found Blackwall rather by accident, on some sort of solo patrol, and had heard him radio the Bull for backup. Dorian had expected him sooner. He had to have some sort of gps in his mysterious cyborg arm, but he took a long time to get places.

The Bull-- Dorian couldn’t call him “Dragon” and keep a straight face, was running down the street somewhere behind him, shouting for Blackwall, concern coloring his voice. Dorian stood up, bolstering himself with his telekinesis. He may have tweaked an ankle in the fall as well.

“Are you shitting me, bud?” The Bull was shouting. “This kid’s got you beat before I even got here?”

Blackwall groaned and struggled to his feet. The Bull came up beside him and dropped a hand on his shoulder to steady him. He turned to Dorian, laser eye pulsing red, biomechanic arm shifting threateningly. Dorian had chosen a worthy adversary. And a hot one.

“Who in the shitting Void are you?” He growled.

Dorian swept out his cloak and bowed deeply. “The Peacock, _not_ at your service.” He pitched his voice lower than he usually spoke, and adopted a Minrathos accent to cover his native coastal drawl. Not that the Bull would be acute enough to identify the difference, but he’d noticed that the “capitol accent” from the city was seen as more threatening here in the south. It helped flesh out his character. “Please prevent your comrade from accosting me further. I have no wish to incite an altercation.” This character also ate a thesaurus for breakfast every day. And lied a lot.

“I’m gonna incite an altercation on your ass.” The Bull stepped between him and Blackwall, who still pressed a hand to his temple. Dorian was distracted by that, he really hadn’t intended to cause lasting injury, fasta vass, the man was supposed to be invulnerable! It was this distraction that allowed the Bull so close. He had to throw his hands up in an inelegant shield as the Qunari charged.

When he felt the Bull’s heavy impact against the air he was stubbornly holding in place, he grabbed and _threw_. He had to stay completely in control of the fight, both to minimize the risk of being defeated and unmasked, and to demonstrate his ability to anyone watching.

And people _were_ watching, staring out of doors and through car windows. They were on cell phones, talking urgently, recording with open mouths. A news team scampered out of the Inquisition Media building and hastily set up a camera. They panned over the scene: a disoriented Blackwall, the Dawnstone Dragon clambering wrathfully off of a smashed car, and then, finally, to Dorian. He set his shoulders and raised his chin just a hair. He’d practiced this in the mirror more than once. 

The Bull seemed to have learned his lesson the first time and didn’t charge again. Instead, he took the car and threw it at Dorian. One handed. Dorian caught it and held it over the Bull’s head with an airy flick of his wrist, pulling a very gratifying and audible gasp from some nearby onlookers. Dorian smirked. 

He was probably distracted by getting the flapping of his cloak just right, or perhaps by all the cameras pointed at him, maybe even by the way the Bull’s muscles were so well defined in that ridiculous pink thing that couldn’t really be called a shirt. In any case, he was distracted and completely unprepared when the Bull’s robotic arm surged up and the car _exploded_. Shrapnel rained down around the Qunari, and scraps of metal flew in all directions.

Dorian, alarmed, raised mental shields around the area, and felt pieces of metal clatter off them less than a second later. One ricocheted off and sliced his cheek, but the sting subsided in a moment. “Hey!” He advanced on the Bull, who glared back at him. “Who the hell explodes cars in the middle of busy street? You could have hurt someone!”

The Bull snorted, not really a laugh. “Like you care.”

“I don’t, of course.” He stared the Bull down for a moment, looking for some sign of recognition. Really, his moustache was out there for anyone to see. Nothing, just a narrowing of his organic eye and a slight baring of teeth. Dorian sighed.

“Is this the quality of ‘hero’ I am to expect from Denerim?” He asked, turning towards his audience. “Is this the pair you have chosen to pay for your protection?”

“We do this for free.” The Bull squared his shoulders and swung at him with his metal arm. “The paid service is the same, but naked.” Dorian ducked, the Bull overbalanced and smacked his hand into a lamppost, crumpling it. 

Dorian wrapped the metal around the Bull’s wrist and up his arm with a gesture, trapping him for a moment. He stepped closer and ran a hand up the Bull’s other arm with a smirk. “Well, then, I suppose you’re not all bad.” He purred. The Bull growled and tried to grab him, but Dorian stepped back. He blew the Bull a kiss and flew away.

 

“He’s certainly making an impression.” Vivienne tapped her pen against her bottom lip, and then signed the document in front of her. The news was on the TV behind her, mute, but she knew which story was playing. It was the same one that had been on all day. The boy from Tevinter, tossing the toughest of the local toughs around like ragdolls.

“He’s also waiting outside. He might not _be_ the Magisterium, Madame, but he represents them.”

“And the Magisterium is never kept waiting. Yes, yes, I know.” She sighed. “Do they think I’m a fool, Dalish? That I don’t know what _they’re_ hoping to gain out of this arrangement?”

“We’re not operating from as powerful position as we’d like, Madame de Fer.” Dalish’s voice was even. “I will ensure that our agents divulge nothing about the White Tower incident.” _Or your part in it._ Dalish finished silently, well aware that Vivienne could hear her anyway. Vivienne allowed her the privacy of her own mind when she could, of course, but they both had a flair for the dramatic.

She smiled without teeth. “Very well, let him in.” Dalish was a good assistant, quiet, quick and deadly. A suitable replacement for her last. She didn’t have quite the same… impact as an eight-foot tall Qunari, but that was her strength, in the end. The Iron Bull had done well in finding her.

Dalish smiled back and left the office. Vivienne spun her chair smoothy to face the wide television set behind her, and watched the footage roll again: the Tevinter boy, cloak snapping stylishly. Blackwall, incapacitated. The Dawnstone Dragon, enraged and wary, unable to get close enough to strike. This “Peacock” had played them well. She had taught the Bull better than that, really.

She saw the same young man reflected in the screen, standing in front of her desk with every outward appearance of nonchalance. His thoughts, however, were a touch more anxious. She turned slowly and observed him in silence for a moment. He looked steadily back.

He had removed his mask in a gesture of respect, and held it loosely in one gloved hand, along with a thick envelope stamped with the crest of the Magisterium. A cut, cleaned but fresh, stood out on his cheek, and his boots were just slightly scuffed around the toes. He was, otherwise, immaculately clean, dressed in tasteful shades of silver and green.

His gaze was direct, but shuttered. He may have had some training in redirecting telepaths, but she read him with ease. Behind the clear lake he was envisioning (a tried old trick, barely effective) he roiled with nerves. He knew about the scuffs on his shoes, and a tear in his cloak that Vivienne hadn’t seen, and these imperfections vexed and worried him. He was cataloging her as well, trying to remember everything he’d read in the dossier… it wasn’t nearly complete, of course, but it was valuable to know what the Magisterium knew. Or thought they knew.

“The Dawnstone Dragon used to run errands for me.” She enjoyed his startled expression. “Before he struck out on his own. You didn’t bully him around too much, I hope.”

“Not too much, Madame, just enough to get the cameras rolling.”

“And enough to earn some real grudges.” She gestured to the screen again. “Neither of those boys cares much for public humiliation. The Dragon may consent to private humiliation, when asked nicely, but this doesn’t strike me as quite that situation.” The Peacock, Dorian Pavus, probable heir to the Magisterium, definite spy, blushed. 

“You have certainly grabbed the public’s attention,” She continued. “Staging this outside Inquisition Media was a clever idea.” The Pavus boy began to preen. “But,” she said sharply, “while you are my guest, you will perform no more such stunts. Since the Dragon is ultimately the one who immolated that car, he is financially responsible for replacing it, but I will not have a destructive maniac on my payroll. Are we clear?”

He nodded with a controlled expression. “Crystal, Madame.” His thoughts were racing. Apparently, they did not have liability clauses for supers in Tevinter. If someone’s car got crushed by a flying Qunari, they had to replace it themselves. Barbaric.

She caught a flicker of guilt in his mind, as well, a brief wondering if the Bull could afford to pay for the car that had been destroyed. He knew the Dawnstone Dragon’s alter ego, apparently (not that anyone with half a brain would have trouble deducing it). Intriguing.

“You must know, I was hesitant to bring you on. The situation is a bit irregular.”

“Naturally.” He placed the folder on the desk, and slid it toward her with a small telekinetic bump. Vivienne broke the seal and read the contents. Nothing she wasn’t expecting. He waited patiently as she read the contract he had already signed: he would assist the Montismard Guild for a duration of six months, with an option for extension. He’d complete the tasks she assigned, and she would instruct him in international superbeing policy, good guild-running habits, and different types of combat. His own guild would be responsible for his upkeep, but she was free to provide him with monetary rewards for exceptional behavior. She was also free to reprimand him as she saw fit. In true Tevene manner, the language of that clause neatly skirted, but condoned, the use of force. She frowned daintily. And they called The Circle barbarians.

“Well, it does all appear to be in order.” She signed the contract with a flourish and leafed through the other papers. Educational history, stellar. Non-guild resume, lacking. Criminal record, obviously nil. Independent research on the history of super-powers and the evolution from old-Age “mages,” fascinating.

“Let’s not beat around the bush, then. Your first task is a simple delivery.” She pulled an inconspicuous bag out from under her desk and handed it to him. “There is valuable Guild information in these documents, too sensitive to trust to computers. Bring it to Josephine Montilyet, _incognito_ , and then follow her instructions until she sends you back to me.”

She wondered if he’d look inside the bag. It wouldn’t matter either way. All he’d learn was that Josie was in charge of building his image in Denerim. He was Tevene. He’d need it. He took the bag with a nod and thanked her for her time.

Dalish slipped in the door that he left open. She’d been listening at her desk the entire time, no doubt. ”Are you going to tell him that the Dragon is still on your payroll?” She asked with a smirk.

Vivienne smirked. “I think, darling, that we should leave Messere Pavus’ access to information on a need-to-know basis.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are back, sorry for the late post!
> 
> Everyone give extra love to Auditorycheesecakes, who wrote p much this whole chapter on her own while I cried over applying to grad schools. -- U


	4. An Unexpected Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian works on his alter ego. Josephine might have a trick or two up her puffy, puffy sleeves.

\---Excerpt from the transcript of the popular radio broadcast _This Shit is Weird: Conversations With Heroes Among Us_ 18, Firstfall, 14:40 Powers---

V. TETHRAS: I don’t have a guest today, folks, since my regular studio is still undergoing a few repairs. I do have a story, for you though. A _ghost_ story. Maybe the most famous ghost story of our Age. Everyone knows about the disaster at the White Spire a few years ago, it was kind of a big deal, international incident, state of emergency, all that. But not everyone knows the story of the Ghost of the White Spire.

[NOISE EFFECT: whoooOOOOooooo]

V. TETHRAS: Now the legend goes that deep in the bowels of The Circle Corporation’s White Spire research facility, there was a locked door. The door was reinforced with special silverite beams, sealed off with armed guards, a hacker-proofed alarm system, and a single key. The only person who had a key was the head researcher herself, a woman whose name and picture somehow never once appeared in the news following the incident. it is widely believed that she was inside of the sealed door when the whole thing happened. Maybe even died down there. 

So there's the question: what else was behind that door? What could possibly have been so secret? I of course, your humble host, don't know the truth. I make no claims to it. All I can do is tell you a story. And that story says that on the bottom floor of the White Spire, behind the reinforced door with armed guards and alarms and only one key, there was an experiment. and that experiment was on ways to examine and control the very thoughts in our heads.  
The Circle denied this of course, as well they should have. It is--as I am being reminded right now via a text message from a certain beautiful and extremely irate corporate lawyer-- just a story. 

So in this story, behind this door, there is a rumor that something with one of the test subjects went terribly, terribly wrong at just the same moment that something with the research went terribly, terribly right. 

And so it is said that the chief researcher, crowing and exuberant in her moment of triumph, looked down at this boy she had been experimenting on and said--

?????: Oh dear Maker, what have I done to him? 

V. TETHRAS: What?

?????: That's what she said. Before the explosion hit us. Or what she thought, anyways. I get them mixed up, sometimes. That's the end of the story. She doesn't want people to know. she thinks it makes her sound too soft-hearted. 

V. TETHRAS: Who are you, kid?

?????: I'm Cole.

V. TETHRAS: How in the void did you get in here? 

COLE?: The door. 

V. TETHRAS: Okay, better questions... why did you come in here?

COLE?: You wanted me to. You were telling them what happened. I was there. I know what happened. Hands shaking, too pale too thin, poor boy, foolish boy, to come here and let me touch him. I shouldn’t’ve--I didn’t think it would--It doesn’t work, it never works, it was never supposed to work like-- 

I only wanted to help.

Maker forgive me, I didn’t understand. 

\---End Transcript---

 

Dorian left the Montismard building through the roof, naturally, pulling his mask back on as he passed Madame Vivienne’s unsettling Elvish secretary. He stepped off the roof and shot into the sky in the direction of Inquisition Media -- was he doomed to spend his life in around that ugly building and its unfashionable green walls? -- where Josephine Montilyet was hopefully in her office.

He made a brief stop on an isolated rooftop on his way there, naturally, to rifle through the contents of the bag Vivienne had given him. She had expected that, certainly, and for all her words about “sensitive guild material,” it was just some financial documents (nothing the Magisterium didn’t already have access to) and a personal note to Ms. Montilyet about Dorian. He was rather miffed that she wanted to change his costume, even a little, but she’d hardly filled with insults. He replaced the papers carefully. If she was as good as everyone said, Montilyet would expect it as well. That was just how the game was played.

He alighted on the Inquisition roof just as the skies opened up. He hurried to the stairwell and shook the water off his cloak. He _could_ , in theory, prevent himself from getting wet, but it required focusing on individual raindrops and he simply didn’t have the patience that required.

Josephine Montilyet’s office was spacious and tastefully decorated, in a surprisingly homey way. Her secretary, a nervous blond who Dorian would have pegged as a bodyguard if he weren’t so jumpy, sat him on a deep, comfortable couch and took the Montismard bag. While Dorian waited for Montilyet, the secretary crossed his arms and glared. He refused to answer Dorian’s question about his name, and stood by the door like a glowering statue. Dorian didn’t have the heart to tell him it wasn’t intimidating. 

With his back to the window, Dorian had a good view of the room and felt ar more at ease than he’d expected to. Madame de Fer’s office, like his father’s in Tevinter, was intimidating to a sleek, well-calculated fault. This room, with its real wood fire and plush carpet, was utterly disarming. 

Josephine Montilyet, when she finally appeared, was equally charming. She bustled in and dismissed her guard/secretary/boy toy with a sweet smile and a “Thank you, Cullen,” and sat down in the cozy arm chair next to Dorian. She poured tea for both of them before turning that smile and a pair of bright, watchful eyes on Dorian.

Were he at home, he would expect poison in the tea, or that the whole entrance was a carefully calculated power play, but instead he found himself drawn to the way she gently tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear, only to have it fall back down again. She regarded it with an amused sort of exasperation that would have been unacceptable for anyone in public relations back in Tevinter. 

“Did you get inside before the rain hit?” Was her first question. They didn’t stop. He felt his story being drawn out of him like thread. In ten minutes, Josephine Montilyet had him wrapped around her finger and Dorian wasn’t sure he even minded.

“The thing is,” she told him as she sketched a new costume for him. “Denerim gets far colder than Tevinter in the winter, and I can’t imagine you’d want to get snow down your sleeve at all.” Dorian leaned over a touch to see what she was drawing. “What if we connected these two pieces with a mesh or some other unobtrusive fabric? It would maintain the silhouette and be far more practical. You could even wear a coat over it. You are planning on staying through the winter, yes? Your duties will keep you with us that long at least?”

“In all likelihood, yes. I don’t really know how long it will take to do everything I need to here.” He considered the drawing. “I’ve noticed that cloaks are far less popular here than in Tevinter. Is that a practicality issue?”

“In some ways, yes. But it’s also about tradition. Cloaks and the like are associated with the stories of old-Age mages and the like. Wearing one can make people associate you with the shadier side of the business.”

“If they didn’t already just because I’m from the Magisterium.” He snorted.

“Yes, old prejudices do die hard. that is a strike against you in many books.” She sipped primly at her tea. “So was your brush with the Superbuds the other day.” Dorian had no idea how she was able to say that with a straight face. “They’re popular, you know, and rather straightforward about their policies. They hardly ever take on other superbeings, and those are always acknowledged criminals, like the Sharps gang or the Silent Sisters. By tangling with them, you know, you’ve rather aligned yourself with the ‘bad guys’ here in Denerim.”

Dorian considered that. He’d just been trying to make an entrance, really. They cared so much more about things like “right and wrong” here.

Montilyet poured him more tea. “Dorian, I know I promised you back to Madame de Fer when I was finished with you, but I was hoping that you could help me with a specific task. It might help with your image issue within the community as well.” She crossed the room to her desk, and Dorian followed.

“I have established a tradition, in the last few years, of hosting the best First Day party in Denerim. Everyone who is anyone will be there. And if you were to help me plan it… well, that would certainly go a long way towards smoothing any ruffled feathers.”

Dorian agreed enthusiastically.

“Wonderful!” Montilyet clapped her hands and smiled at him, and Dorian felt like he’d just won a prize in school. “Now, there is only one matter left to attend to. Every good super needs an alter ego, and every good alter ego needs an unremarkable day job. Sit right here,” she gestured to her own desk chair, “and let’s get started. Do you have any retail experience?”

Dorian very nearly choked on his tea. These people expected him to _work_ while he was working? In _retail_?

What he needed, Dorian decided as he left the Inquisition building, arms full of employment forms (for a local coffee shop! A coffee shop!), was some form of mundane transport. He didn’t have the Pavus family cars in Denerim, or their drivers, and he couldn’t fly everywhere. Taxis were in astonishingly short supply, and the bus was out of the question.

The solution was simple. 

As luck would have it, there was a small automotive shop right down the block from his apartment building. A quick survey of the employees got him the address of the best dealership, and some flirting got him a promise for any tune-ups he needed. The choice was obvious, and he brought his prize straight to them. They had a garage door that opened in an appropriately dramatic fashion and at least two people who would give him an acceptable amount of attention.

They did. They _had_ to. It was a Dracolisk. A Vinsomer Dracolisk, undeniably the best motorcycle Vinsomer had ever produced. Bright red, 321cc inline twin cylinder engine, uncountable performance awards, fast and sporty and everything Dorian had ever dreamed of. Dorian left it in the expert hands of Dennet, the shop’s owner and chief mechanic, and sauntered over to the office. He’d need to register it with Denerim’s DMV, probably. Best to get the paperwork over with quickly.

The Iron Bull was leaning on the counter talking to one of the mechanics when he entered. The woman seemed about Bull’s height, at least until Dorian made it around the counter and discovered that the mechanic was, in fact, a very short dwarf woman standing on an extremely tall stool. Her face seemed oddly familiar. He stared a moment longer, his eyes fixed on her sparkling eyes and round cheeks. Surely, she couldn’t be--not here, of all places-- 

Dagna Smith, the greatest living arcanist besides Bianca Davri herself gestured so forcefully that she toppled off her stool. The Iron Bull reached out his mechanical arm to catch her just in time. 

Dagna laughed, patting the Bull’s gleaming forearm where it wrapped around her waist and allowing him to place her on the store counter. She must have Andraste’s own publicist, thought Dorian. All news of Dagna in the Imperium made her seem imposing, an impenetrable tower of intellect and technological enigma. She certainly did not sit on automotive shop counters and giggle. 

“Well, you get the idea,” she finished, waving her hand vaguely in the direction of her stool, still upended on the ground.

Bull grinned at her. “As long as the balance still works, I trust you.” 

They saw Dorian, and the bike behind him, at the same time. Dorian wanted a photo of each of their faces, because the contrast between delight and horror was just too perfect. Dagna nearly leapt off the counter, and the Bull frantically pulled down his sleeve, hiding the uncovered metal hand behind his back. How in the name of the Maker did he think he was ‘undercover’? What about this was ‘incognito’? Dorian was honestly doing him a favor.

He raised an eyebrow at the Bull, ready to say something sly and teasing, but Dagna Smith (Dagna Smith!) was right in front of him. “Hello!” She said, and she didn’t sound like a mad scientist at all. He wasn’t entirely sure how to respond.

Luckily, he didn’t have to.

“You can’t be serious about that deathtrap.” The Bull had his arms folded and glowered down at Dorian. “Motorcycles are the most dangerous thing to drive! Even in a city like Denerim.”

“So? It’s not like I’m new to it. And--”

“It’s not safe!” The Bull burst out. “There are some real assholes out there, Dorian. You could get seriously hurt!” He seemed to actually be concerned. Dorian was caught a bit off guard by the warmth that bubbled up in chest. The scion of House Pavus did not get _warm fuzzies_.

Dagna giggled. “The Bull’s such a mother hen.” She told Dorian in a conspiratorial whisper that made the massive Qunari roll his eyes. “Besides, the Vinsomer models are some of the lightest in their class! Even if you wipe out at high speeds it’s really unlikely to crush you to death. You can lift it, right? You know the rule--”

“If you can’t lift it, you can’t ride it,” Dorian chorused with her. He even demonstrated, grunting with effort as he tilted the bike without the aid of telepathy. 

“Exactly.” Dagna looked terribly pleased. The Iron Bull continued to look vaguely distressed.

“What if I installed some custom safety features?” She asked the Bull. “Made the brakes better, improved the headlights, added an ejector seat?”

“You just like working on fancy bikes too much.” The Bull snorted, but he relaxed.

Dorian did not. “I really don’t think I need an ejector seat, thank you. That doesn’t feel like it would make me safer.” 

But Dagna and the Iron Bull were on a roll. “Automatic turn stabilization.” Suggested the Bull. 

“Underwater capabilities!” Crowed Dagna. “Automatically locking brakes that can launch the bike over obstacles!”

“Uh, guys.” Dorian tried to interject. 

“We’re doing it.” Dagna declared, and dragged Dorian and the Iron Bull into the garage by their forearms. The Bull chuckled the whole way over to the bike and patted Dorian on the shoulder with a heavy hand.

Dagna handed Dorian a notebook and the Bull a wrench, and Dorian watched, speechless, as a dwarf and a Qunari took apart his newest, most prized possession. It was like some sort of terrible joke.

They didn’t take it _all_ the way apart, thank the Maker for small mercies. Unsure of his role in this vivisection, Dorian held the notebook in nervous hands and watched. His research back in Tevinter had suggested the Bull had some scientific or mechanical training, but the man was apparently a genius. 

Dorian didn’t know _how_ the Bull never dropped a single bolt or fumbled with the wrench once. It made no sense. The tools were dwarf-sized and his hands were _massive_. Next to him, Dagna chattered and giggled and explained what they were doing in fast-paced, technical language that Dorian understood only partially. He might have comprehended a bit more if he wasn’t distracted by the way the Bull twirled the wrench thoughtfully between his fingers or ran his thumb over the body of the bike. Dorian wondered if the Bull had some sort of hypnotic power along with his ridiculous physical strength. There didn’t seem to be another reason for Dorian’s attention to catch so specifically on his short, dark nails or quiet laughter. 

It occurred to Dorian a good half hour after it should have that this, in addition to being a violent assault on his motorcycle and possibly psyche, was an excellent opportunity to gather information. He leaned over Bull while the other man--now in just a hideous floral t-shirt to avoid staining his hoodie with grease, secret arm seemingly forgotten-- did...something with the... gear...thingies. Also pistons. Definitely pistons were involved with the... mechanic-ing. “So where did you learn to work on motorcycles?” If Dorian had to steady himself on Bull’s shoulder while he looked at the...gears?... so much the better. 

Bull gave a grunt of acknowledgement and finished tightening up the something before he answered. “Used to work for the Qunari Corps of Engineers, up in Par Vollen. Wasn’t really a mechanic, though. I was more of a chemist. But we get all kinds of training as kids, you know.” 

Yes, thank you, I read your file, Dorian all but sneered at him. He controlled himself, of course. Nasty look on him, the sneer. “I’ve heard that’s quite literally a thankless job. Don’t they assign you food rations instead of payment or something up there?”

Bull chuckled. “Yeah, but it didn’t feel like that, at the time. I was part of something... bigger. Had a real purpose. It felt good. Plus, they’re really _good_ food rations. They give you dessert and everything.” 

“An idyllic existence, I’m certain.” Dorian sniffed. “Why ever leave.”

Bull chuckled, his face hidden as he pored over the engine. “Let’s just say that under the Qun, ‘I live to serve,’ is a little more than a cute expression.”

“How do you feel about nitro boosts?” Dagna asked.

“Yes!” Dorian exclaimed at the same time that Bull shouted, “No!”

In the ensuing argument, Dorian never quite found an opportunity to ask The Iron Bull exactly what he meant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you think we could write a story without Dagna? Or Cullen the Precious Noodle?
> 
> Also, this has no bearing on the story but AC thinks you should know: Felix is alive and well in Tevinter, and has a small super power: he's really, really lucky. That is all.


	5. Steamed Milk Makes an Excellent Smokescreen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian's first shift has some ups and downs. Conscription Coffee's going to be an interesting place to work, in between all that supervillainry.  
> A brief foray into a coffee-shop AU *within* another AU.

\---Excerpt from the transcript of the popular radio broadcast _This Shit is Weird: Conversations With Heroes Among Us_ 2, Haring, 14:40 Powers---

V. TETHRAS: This week, I’m joined by the incomparable legend, the Enchantress of Montsimmard, Madame de Fer. And let me tell you folks, it takes quite a bit to impress me, but The Iron Lady really lives up to her name. 

MME. DE FER: Well, I could hardly do anything else with a name like that, could I darling?

V. TETHRAS: [cuckling] I guess not. So, Madame de Fer, my listeners and I are curious. Montsimmard is a guild known for taking in supers whose powers have... shall we say... more subtle uses than your average band of super-toughs. For instance, I heard you had a woman on your payroll who understands every language, but is mute herself? 

MME. DE FER: Clobbering through one’s enemies like a druffalo is hardly the only way to get the job done, my dear. My employees are more subtly gifted, yes, but I’d be happy to hear the reasoning of any person who does not deign us a force to be reckoned with. The Warden, since you chose to bring her up, has mediated five major international disputes this year alone. And been paid handsomely for her services, I might add.

V. TETHRAS: Hey, hey, I didn’t mean anything by it! It’s kind of a nice change of pace, you know? We get bruisers in here every other week. Literally. It’s good to see someone with a more... delicate touch. 

MME. DE FER: A delicate touch and an ironclad constitution are the keys to success, my dear. 

V. TETHRAS: And you certainly have those in spades. You also have something I have found to be truly rare among established supers, and that is a truly private private life. Everyone in the local business knows that the Dawnstone Dragon is really--oh, look, that’s my legal advisor, vigorously shaking her head at me. And signing something to me through the recording room windo--sweet Maker, Nightengale, where did you learn the sign for _that?_

MME. DE FER: Orlais, darling. The wellspring of all depravity. 

V. TETHRAS: You have a point. But what I’m saying is, the best info hunters ever sent for you might have gotten your real first name, though I heard even that’s up for debate. No one knows where you live, your last name, what you did before forming Montsimmard... there aren’t even very good accounts of what your powers are.

MME. DE FER: Of course not. I keep it that way by not discussing such things on syndicated radio networks. 

V. TETHRAS: Well, you can’t blame a guy for giving it a try. Can you at least give us a little hint?

MME. DE FER: Before Montsimmard, my work was largely comprised of taking very dull notes on a terribly dry research project. Is that sufficient to slake your curiosity?

V. TETHRAS: On the contrary, it only enflames it more, dear lady. But unfortunately we are all out of time for this episode. Thank you again for joining us, Madame de Fer. You have been a truly dazzling guest. This is Varric Tethras, signing off!  
\--End Transcript--

Dorian was, for some inconceivable reason, nervous. He was sitting in Conscription Coffee, surrounded by chattering high schoolers, industrious college students and rushing soccer moms, waiting for the manager to come get him for an interview, and he was _nervous_.

He watched the baristas behind the counter, as they took orders and made drinks in what looked like an intricate, fine-tuned dance. Dorian had never worked food service. He’d assumed it was easy until two days ago, when he started watching the people behind the counters he went to. It looked _complicated_.

Telling himself that as a Pavus, nerves were below him did not help. Telling himself that teenagers got jobs in cafes all the time did not help. Even knowing that he was a powerful telekinetic with degrees in physics and metaphysical theory didn’t help.

The manager came out of the back room, headed straight towards him, and Dorian seriously considered bolting. Somehow, he held his ground, and shook Zevran’s hand with one of the most painful fake smiles he had ever forced.

It turned out, and Dorian really should have expected this, that Montilyet had already arranged everything.

Ten minutes later, he was stationed by the espresso machine with instructions from the to “watch, learn, and not burn his beautiful hands.”

Dorian would have appreciated the compliment more if he weren’t so busy trying understand all the _wands_ and _buttons_ and _knobs_ on the espresso machine. There did _not_ need to be that many. Why. Just, why.

“This is how to steam milk,” Zevran said as he slid a metal metal pitcher around a wand and flipped one of the switches. It emitted the loud hissing noise Dorian had always associated with lattes but had never known its source. He startled slightly.

“This is--” Another knob was turned and the rest of his words were swallowed in a rush of steam and sound. Dorian figured his best bet was probably just to watch and try not to jump out of his skin every time the cash drawer opened unexpectedly.

It wasn’t all bad. He had to wear a hat, but there wasn’t a uniform or even a cheap company polo, and Ogrhen, who shuffled to the back halfway through Dorian’s first shift and handed him a full flask, mumbling something about “someone finally making Zevran shut up about being the prettiest.” and “Wishing the boss would come back and make her husband shut up.” 

They put him on the register and the customers were much nicer than he expected. There was one woman who had a lot to say about him being from Tevinter, but in the end she only ordered a small latte, and told him to watch himself.

A couple hours in, he was comfortable enough to listen in on conversations and not just stand anxiously in place. One man was lecturing his date on the ambysal way the Wardens (a local team, maybe football?) had started their season. She didn’t care at _all_. A group of kids from the local high school were waxing poetic about their shop teacher. He was “tall” and “dreamy” and they liked the way he “handled his wrench, if you know what they mean.” (Everyone knows what they mean. Everyone.) Dorian stopped listening and began considering Ogrhen’s gift more seriously. Maker, these were _highschoolers._

The most exciting part of his first shift was a woman who asked for “two shots of espresso, over ice.” Feeling confident, Dorian made two shots, poured them into an ice-filled cup, and handed the drink to her. She handed it back immediately. “There’s too much water,” She snapped. “Make it again and make sure there’s no water.”

Dorian stared at her. “Well, the ice does melt a little when you pour the hot espresso over it?” He ventured. He wanted nothing more than to set her on fire with his mind. He could do that maybe, he’d been practicing. It wasn’t exactly the same as pyromancy, it was more agitating the molecules in her cheap, cotton-blend shirt, but he could still do it. That would probably blow his cover, though.

“Do you know who I am?” She demanded, and didn’t _that_ remind Dorian of any restaurant outing with his father. The only difference was that Dorian did _not_ know who she was, and he did _not_ care. He apologized and turned to Zevran with an expression that he hoped conveyed his fury.

Zevran, being some sort of Patience Spirit, took a cup and got ice “straight from the ice machine in the back, freshly crushed, ma’am, no need to worry.” Dorian watched, bemused as Zevran flirted her into a tip and out the door. 

“ _That_ is a more useful super power than anything I’ve ever seen.” Dorian told him.

“You do whatever you want to that coffee and take it with you on you break.” What Zevran’s smiling response. Dorian dumped another shot of espresso in, tested his newly acquired milk-steaming skills, and put in a pump of chocolate. “Sound theory,” Zevran had been watching quietly over his shoulder, “but the ice melted and it is probably watery.” It was. Zevran handed him a croissant and a cup of drip coffee from one of the carafes. “Fifteen minutes,” he said with a smile. “It is usually quite slow after lunch, so I will show you how to make some of the specialties.”

Dorian wound up sitting next to the high schoolers with the erotic shop teacher. They were discussing the best superpowers to have.

“Sushi,” said a chubby qunari boy wearing a frankly unflattering shade of purple blush. “Sushi is the best superpower.” 

“ _Sushi_ isn’t a superpower, Asaaranda,” said the elven girl next to him. She wore her dark hair in elaborate coils that contrasted starkly with her red vallaslin. It made her look... well, angry, mostly, though she was rolling her eyes good-naturedly at the qunari now.

“It is if you’re able to think outside the box! Imagine being able to just _create_ sushi. Anywhere, you just think of it, and sushi! First of all, it’s straight up useful. Free, endless food. And, it has lots of potential for good. Just show up at a homeless shelter and give everyone an awesome dinner! Someone’s robbing a bank? Shove some sushi under their foot! They fall flat on their face, you save the day.”

The other qunari, a girl, made an expressive fart noise with her frappe-less hand. “You’re thinking too noble with it. You sound like my great-grand Tama.” She pulled an overly serious face and dropped her voice into a deep mock-funeral somber. “Under the Qun, we distribute resources to those who need them. These bas are too wasteful and I hate cookies and fun.” She reverted back to her original grin. “What about hiding some of it under someone’s car seats on a hot day? Or using it to steal their cats?”

“ _Or_ ,” The elf was getting into it now, “If _you’re_ the one robbing the bank, you could use it to get away. Cops can’t drive a car _filled_ with sushi. Or if you’re fighting someone, just materialize some sushi in their shoe or mouth, that’ll distract them for sure. Or in their _throat_ if you wanted to kill them. Like Mr. Solas. He gave me a D on my Elvhen culture project because I didn’t use enough ‘approved sources.’” She growled a bit. “He’s always like, ‘here at Therin Memorial Academy for the Arts and Sciences we pride ourselves on adherence to the highest standards of research and blah blah blah.’ It’s my fucking culture. I think I know how we celebrate Falon’Din. I’d stick a plate of historically accurate Dalish sushi on his bald eggy head.”

Asaaranda looked alarmed at his companion’s bloodthirstiness, but the other qunari simply snorted and punched her on the shoulder. “Now you’re getting it. You could also just make a ton of money. If _you_ get tired of eating sushi, you can always just sell it to other people.”

Dorian hadn’t previously considered whether or not sushi was a useful superpower, but he was convinced now. It was a damn sight better than hearing about the lickable shop teacher.

They left a few minutes after Dorian went back behind the counter, and his shift continued in an uneventful manner until about ten minutes before its end. The Iron Bull trundled in, with his arm around the shoulders of a stocky, muscular man in his early thirties. Dorian stamped down the wave of irrational jealousy that seemed to be clawing its way through his blood vessels. 

Bull spotted him and smiled so widely Dorian thought his eyepatch might fall off. “Dorian! I didn’t know you worked here!” 

“I didn’t either,” Dorian mumbled. He had not prepared for this. He really should have. 

“Did you just start?”

“This morning, actually.” 

“This is Krem! We teach together at Therin Memorial.” He shoved the other man forward, and physically lifted his hand over the counter. Dorian shook it, trying to convey confusion and sympathy to the disgruntled-looking Krem. 

“Pleased to meet you,” Dorian said. “What do you teach?”

“Sociology,” Krem deadpanned. His Tevinter accent was both thick and unmistakably lower class. 

“Ah.” There was a tense, almost palpable moment of silence. The Iron Bull seemed blissfully unaware of it. Dorian panicked. He had never actually been in the position of trying to get a Soporatus to like him before. What did Soporati even do? Sports? He was pretty sure he had seen a movie once where a Soporatus taught an Alta a sexier kind of dancing at a summer resort over the objections of her Magister parents. Should he say he liked dancing? 

“I’ll have a chai latte with soy milk,” Krem said. 

Dorian hoped his sigh of relief was not as audible as it felt. “Anything else?” He asked. 

“Garlic bagel.” 

“Sure,” Dorian said weakly. 

“I’ll have a double-chocolate chip frappe with whipped cream,” Bull told him. “And a chocolate croissant.”

Dorian nodded in polite horror at the idea of anyone consuming that much chocolate at one sitting. “Do you teach as well?” He asked Bull while he measured the milks of various origins.

Bull made an affirmative noise.

“What course?”

“Shop.” 

Dorian dropped the milk carton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The highschoolers are all based on some of U's wonderful inquisitors are the Qunaris Dirthara Adaar, Asaaranda Adaar and Lisaine Lavallan!  
> This week in Bull's class, they're making CO2 cars!


	6. A Winter's Ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The long-awaited winter party, and Dorian's Evil Plot thickens. (Not a euphemism.)

\---Excerpt from the transcript of the popular radio broadcast _This Shit is Weird: Conversations With Heroes Among Us_ 20, Wintermarch, 14:41 Powers---

V. TETHRAS: Today we have with a us a very special guest. She’s not a super herself, but she is a very influential member of the community. Her firm, Montilyet Relations, is the leading PR firm for supers in Denerim. Every big-name hero, and some villains, rely on her to design costumes, prep them for press conferences, and even negotiate contracts and find day jobs.

J. MONTILYET: My, you are very well-informed, Master Tethras! If you know all of this, I’m not sure what questions you need to ask me?

V. TETHRAS: Well, I have it on good authority that you know all the good gossip.

J. MONTILYET: My dear Master Tethras, I create all the good gossip. It is my job. 

V. TETHRAS: All the better, then. What’s next year’s big headline? The Dawnstone Dragon and the Peacock announce their engagement?

J. MONTILYET: [laughter] I would hardly call their first meeting the stuff love stories are made of, but that would indeed be quite the headline. In the meantime, your listeners will have to content themselves with stories of this year’s winter ball. 

V. TETHRAS: And it always is a night to remember. People are still talking about the band that played last year.

J. MONTILYET: Alistair and the Cheese Wheels, yes. I must say I was a little dubious of their name at first.

V. TETHRAS: And I think many of your guests were dubious of their experimental jazz.

J. MONTILYET: And yet, we still talk about it. 

V. TETHRAS: You have me there, Miss Montilyet. I eagerly await the chance to report on this year’s evening of entertainment. And this time, I’ll bring earplugs. This is Varric Tethras and special guest Josephine Montilyet signing off from This Shit is Weird: Stories of Heroes Among Us.

\--END TRANSCRIPT--

Thom was _not_ excited to be attending the Annual Montilyet PR Firm Networking Event. Bull loved it, but Bull loved anything with food and people paying attention to him. He always wound up having fascinating conversations while Thom answered the same awkward questions over and over. “Yes, our name is actually the Superbuds.” “No, I don’t like it.” “No, you can’t punch me to see if I’m actually invincible, it won’t go well for you, just trust me.”

He lingered near the punch bowl and tried not to look sullen. Josephine floated by once in a dress that reminded Thom of sunrises and looked so sad that he wasn’t enjoying himself that he wound up feeling worse.

Bull had bullied him into drycleaning his uniform and commissioning a matching cape and mask, since they usually didn’t bother with that. The cape kept getting caught on things and the mask itched his ears. He couldn’t see as well as he’d like, but Josephine told him it looked very dashing, so maybe it wasn’t all bad. He adjusted his mask-- simple cloth, but more than he was used to wearing on his face regardless-- and tried to focus on something besides how bored and out of place he felt. Bull was always telling him to practice his observational skills.

He watched the bigwigs schmooze and mingle, everyone wearing fancier, more dramatic versions of their usual costumes. It had been difficult to navigate the first time he’d been invited, since the easiest way to identify a super was their outfit, and some people didn’t even bother to follow their established color schemes.

Madame de Fer was holding court across the room from Thom, and he had no idea what her powers were beyond being _powerful_ , but he was frankly intimidated by her mask. It was... spiky. Her outfit was an intricate assemblage of cloth that swept the ground and drew the eye. But Thom was a gentleman, and Madame de Fer could crush Blackwall in a moment, so he didn’t let his eye linger.

The usual suspects were in attendance, the best and brightest of Josephine’s clients, as well as a few of the more… controversial individuals she represented. Like the Peacock. Fuck that guy.

He was hovering attendance on Madame de Fer and Josephine as well, and apparently doing an excellent job of keeping them both entertained. Thom wasn’t jealous of the Peacock at all. Josie could talk to anyone she liked, even if they were over-decorated ‘Vints who threw Thom through windows. His outfit was downright shiny. It was somehow even less practical than his regular costume, with truly ridiculous gaps in the fabric. His cloak was even longer than the one Thom had been coerced into wearing. Thom wasn’t really one for rivalries, or the whole nemesis system in general, but he really didn’t like the Peacock. 

Thom could see Bull noticing the Peacock too, which was bad. His eye tracked the ‘Vint even while talking to the Seeker, who usually commanded all of Bull’s attention. She seemed distracted as well, though, attention focused on that reporter, Varric. Thom wasn’t surprised that he was here, though his bright purple suit stood out as much as his lack of a shirt under it, or a mask over his face.

A man Thom was pretty sure he hadn’t seen before, even at one of Josephine’s events, leaned against the pillar next to him. Thom was sure he would have remembered anyone wearing what appeared to be the world’s largest bird skull on his head. 

“How is it that the most dashing man in the ballroom finds himself sitting alone in the corner? Surely you would like a dance.” His Antivan accent was thick enough that it could be reasonably termed a purr.

Thom had to take several steps back and duck slightly in order to meet the man’s eyes under the--raven? was it a raven? head. When he did he was surprised to note that he could in fact see the man’s entire face. He had a dark, spiraling tattoo and tawny golden eyes. “I really don’t dance.”

“A pity. Perhaps you are more one for sparkling conversation?”

“I’m not much for sparkling either. But I would be interested to know why you’re the only person in this whole ballroom not wearing a mask.”

The bird man chuckled. “The first rule of corporate espionage, my friend. Make others believe they know more about you than you do about them.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Thom, “But did you just _tell me_ that you’re a spy?”

He gave a dramatic bow. “Zevran Aranai, master of the Antivan Crows at your service.”

Even Thom had heard of the Crows. Well, more accurately, he had listened sympathetically over lattes while Josephine complained to him about the Crows. Supposedly, they were the best “information gathering” service in the super business, though it was rumored almost none of them had powers themselves. Well, it explained the bird head, at least. Though it left a number of questions a lot more open than before. “Aren’t you sort of an enemy to the whole group of people wanting to keep their secret identities secret? Specifically all the people here?”

Zevran shrugged. “I prefer to think of myself as an ally to the people who want freedom of information.” 

Thom rolled his eyes. He sincerely hoped that his mask didn’t shadow them too much for Zevran to see. “You’re a nuisance.”

“Ah, but a terribly dashing one, no? Besides, you have nothing to fear from me. My employers are after information on an entirely different target.”

“I’m hurt,” Thom said emotionlessly. “Really, how could anyone not be fascinated with the great and mysterious Blackwall?”

“It is quite a mystery, my friend. I did once have a potential client come to me asking for a skin sample. I had to sit him down and explain to him what ‘impervious to cutting’ actually meant. Quite embarrassing for all involved, if you wish the truth. But tonight I am here for Madame De Fer.” 

“Tell him he can pay you to crash another party for my toenail clippings if he’s really interested. I have a friend do them with a belt sander.”

Zevran laughed again. “For your information, I am here in quite a legitimate capacity.”

“You aren’t seriously trying to tell me Josephine invited you to her party when you’re investigating one of her clients and also being a huge pain in her ass?”

“Not at all. Madame De Fer invited me. And I think possibly two or three other firms hired to spy on her every waking move.” 

“Of course she did.” Blackwall settled himself back into his corner. “Any luck?”

“I... ah, well.” Zevran fidgeted. ”This week I was able to reliably report back to my employers that she might not have fire powers. Probably. Also I have narrowed down the list to three possible first names.” 

“Seems about right. If it helps at all, I’m pretty sure it’s not Marcy or Angelica.” 

The lights dimmed unexpectedly. Thom looked around for the inevitable supervillain appearance. He couldn’t imagine that Josephine had left someone powerful off the guest list, so there was either some dramatic announcement to be made (which he was pretty sure she would have told him about before) or someone was crashing the party for nefarious reasons.

Zevran turned to him, “Do _you_ know what is happening?” he looked a little worried.Thom looked around for Josephine. He hoped she was all right.

People were beginning to mill in panic-- weren’t they all supposed to be superheroes, not bystanders? Thom stepped forward, looking for the source of the threat. It materialized, literally, in the middle of a table. The man-- boy-- person, had a good sense of drama. A good sense of drama had always been a virtue lost on Thom, though. Swirling smoke, flickering lights, startled onlookers and a slight sense of dread usually spelled trouble.

Everyone stared. The boy knelt on the table, face obscured by stringy blond hair and a makeshift mask, barely moving. Josephine stepped forward, her nervousness clear in her expression, and Thom hurried to her side.

Madame de Fer arrived in a swirl of white silk, back ramrod straight, and swept Josephine behind her. Josie, not cut out for this sort of heroics, sagged into Thom’s arms with relief.

“Andraste’s pearly nipple rings,” Thom heard Varric mutter. “I know that kid.”

“What are you doing here?” Madame de Fer demanded. Her voice was like steel and ice.

“I’m here to help.” The kid stepped off the table, glancing around at everyone in the room. “There are so many secrets in this room. So many masks, how do you know which one is yours?”

No one moved.

He turned to Madame de Fer with a plaintive look. “You want to help too, I know you do. I can tell.”

“There’s no help for you here.” Madame de Fer’s voice did not shake.

“I don’t want help for me.” The kid took a step towards her, a hand outstretched. “I want to help you, we’re the same. Don’t you understand? Together, we can help them. You need to--”

She threw a hand out and the kid froze as if encased in ice. Thom could see the kid’s shocked expression for a split second before he… shimmered. Thom blinked, and the kid was gone, Madame de Fer with him.

The guests stood blinking in confusion, murmuring breaking out in ever corner. Josephine pulled away from Thom. “I-- I’m afraid I must take care of the press that will surely descend on this... incident.” 

Thom turned to Bull. “What in the Maker’s name was _that?_ ” he asked, and Bull shrugged expressively.

“I don’t know, and I don’t want to. Let’s grab some of those shrimp things and split.” Thom agreed, resolving to call Josephine in the morning.

When morning came, though, he found he couldn’t quite remember what he had set out to do the night before.

 

In the days following the kerfuffle at the winter party, Dorian began to settle into a routine. He worked at Conscription Coffee four days a week (and didn’t tell his father that he practically had a full-time job in the _food service industry_ ) and assisted Madame de Fer on his days off and in the afternoons after he opened the cafe. He kept his Peacock outfit folded carefully in the bottom of his bag, hidden under the folders and books that he was constantly moving about. At Montsimmard, his role seemed to be part research assistant, part courier, and entirely at Madame de Fer’s disposal.

Bull came to Conscription Coffee every day that Dorian worked, and when it was slow he leaned on the counter, ordered outrageous drinks, and flirted shamelessly. It had made Dorian a little nervous at first, truth be told. But no one seemed to notice it any more than they paid attention to the awkward first dates that Dorian was now constantly overhearing. 

When it was busy, Bull would sometimes sit by a the front window for a while, tapping industriously at his laptop, or grading papers. “What kind of shop teacher assigns _papers_?” Dorian asked while they walked back to the apartment together. Bull had stayed in the cafe longer than usual, and the evening was warm enough for a walk. He refused to let Bull sit cramped over his tiny computer all evening.

“They’re more like project proposals, for the upper grades.” Bull shrugged. “And evaluations of what went well and what didn’t after each unit. Scientific process stuff. Like, ‘I hypothesized that my toothpick bridge would be fireproof, and my experiment proved that hypothesis incorrect.’” Dorian laughed, and Bull grinned at him, pleased.

“You must have hardly any free time.” Dorian _knew_ that Blackwall and the Dawnstone Dragon had foiled a bank robbery the night before, and then Bull taught a full day of classes? Did the man even sleep?

“I like to keep busy,” Bull smiled wryly. “I have a few hobbies too.”

“Ah, yes. The mysterious reasons you’re always getting home while I’m doing my laundry.”

Bull looked guilty, but not enough to reveal his secret identity. Good. Dorian would have been very disappointed in him if he had. “Who does their laundry at eleven pm?”

“What schoolteacher is out till eleven on weeknights?”

“The kind that has a lot to do?” How did this man protect his identity at all? He was a terrible liar.

Dorian stopped walking and put his hands on his hips, forcing Bull to swing around to face him. He raised an unimpressed eyebrow and the corner of his mouth in his best come-hither smirk. “Bull, if you always have secret plans and an unpredictable schedule, just how am I supposed to ask you over for dinner?”

A surprised grin spread across the Bull’s face, and Dorian found that when he smiled back, it was entirely genuine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back!


	7. With My Freeze Ray...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a date, and it involves a lot more lying than anyone realizes.

\---Excerpt from the transcript of the popular radio broadcast _This Shit is Weird: Conversations With Heroes Among Us_ 8, Guardian, 14:41 Powers---

V. TETHRAS: We’ve got a treat for you today, folks! In an even-more-exclusive-than-usual interview, I’m joined in the studio by Denerim’s very own dark knight, Vesper! So, Vesper, I’m interested in how an expat from one of Ferelden's more bitter rivals has had so much success here. What’s the secret to your popularity?

VESPER: Well, it didn’t happen all at once. As far as Tevinter goes, the key word there is “expat.” As for popularity, I guess you could say there’s a lot of networking that goes into being a lone wolf.

V.TETHRAS: I understand you got your start in the henchman department at Montsimmard?

VESPER: Yeah, I worked security as part of a team. We did a lot of recon, bodyguard sort of stuff. It was a unique program that gave some of us non-supers a chance to do good too.

V.TETHRAS: So you’re confirming the rumors that you don’t have any powers?

VESPER: I’m unbelievably stubborn. Same thing, really. At the end of the day you can go toe to toe with any super moron if you’re determined enough. Who cares if they can throw cars around with their minds?

V. TETHRAS: You mean like the Peacock?

VESPER: Yeah, like him.

V.TETHRAS: Does this mean there’s a rivalry brewing?

VESPER: Well, attacking my friends certainly hasn’t endeared him to me.

V.TETHRAS: That’s right, the Dawnstone Dragon was the head of the mundane division at Montsimmard when you were there. 

VESPER: That’s right.

V TETHRAS: You said that division was for people with no powers, but he’s definitely… augmented.

VESPER: What, you mean Qunari aren’t all born with laser eyes and robot hands? Nah, he was a good compromise between super and non-super since he spent most of his life as boring as the rest of us.

V.TETHRAS: About to give us some hints into the Dragon’s mysterious origin?

VESPER: Ha, no. I don’t pry into the chief’s tragic backstory and he stays out of mine..

V.TETHRAS: But you two have kept in touch even after leaving Montsimmard?

VESPER: We’ve done a job or two together.

END TRANSCRIPTION

 

Perhaps four courses would be overkill. Dorian frowned at the pot bubbling on the stove and the vegetables chopping themselves industriously on the counter. They could do without the salad, maybe, and he really should settle on a single main dish. Dessert was non-negotiable, as was the low lighting and the candles. He waved a clean tablecloth and his only two matching plates across the room to settle themselves on the table.

The plan was simple. Seduce the Iron Bull, use his lowered defenses to determine his current level of communication with Par Vollen headquarters, and assess how much benefit the Magisterium could gain from examining the Qunari tech in his eye and arm.

Well, technically, the plan was “get close to” the Iron Bull, but this way (seducing) included a bit of fun for Dorian, and the not inconsiderable benefit of annoying his father. Halward Pavus needed to know that when _he_ was in charge of the Magisterium, Dorian wouldn’t be bothering with unimportant issues like what his subordinates thought of his sex life. Dorian was going to be involved with the far more important business of _ruling the world._ Or, at least, using the Magisterium’s not inconsiderable amount of material wealth and sociopolitical power to make the world a better place for everyone. He was a villain, not a megalomaniac.

In the meantime, those age old tools of villains the world over: good food, good wine, and skin-tight outfits-- ahem-- sparkling conversation. With the finality of an executioner, Dorian returned the ingredients for his chicken alfredo to the fridge, and left the salmon marinating just a little longer while he went to get dressed. He had barely an hour until the Bull was supposed to arrive.

At least his outfit would be easier to decide on than the food. He’d had years of practice making himself look delectable, far fewer making edible food. The salmon was from a package with specific instructions, it felt much safer than the nebulous description of “grilled” chicken.

Pants were easy; tight, black, showed off his legs and various other assets nicely. Shirt; also tight, not fully buttoned, sleeves rolled up. Hair; twenty minutes of careful styling with gel, combs and telekinesis. Makeup; wouldn’t have taken as long as it did if he hadn’t gone overboard and had to start from scratch. 

Everything was approaching readiness when Bull knocked on the door. Dorian gave the room a quick once-over. He swung the door to the guest room (with its rather incriminating documents, maps of Ferelden and Magisterium-designed computer) closed, straightened the tablecloth and lit the candles with a snap of his fingers.

He rushed to the door-- then took a deep breath and opened it slowly. It wouldn’t do to look too eager. He was the one doing the seducing here, after all. 

Bull stood a little nervously in the doorway, holding a bottle of red wine. . It was hardly the ideal pairing for their meal, but Dorian took it with a smile and stood on his toes to kiss Bull on the cheek. He wore a button-up roughly the same shade as the wine and mercifully dark and unpatterned slacks. Dorian glanced down at the wine, finding himself suddenly thirsty.

Bull took a step into the apartment and looked around. “I like what you’ve done with the place,” he said a bit awkwardly. “You have good taste.”

“Of course I do.” Dorian took the wine into the kitchen and hunted in his drawers for his corkscrew. Bull followed him and leaned against the counter.

“You look… good.” Bull sounded unsure of himself. 

Dorian poured the wine and offered Bull a glass, eyebrow raised. “Are you nervous?” he teased, and Bull chuckled self-consciously. 

“I don’t go on a lot of dates.” Bull said.

“Really?” The Bull’s dossier had specifically stated that he was… liberal with his affections. “But you always seem--”

“Sex is different than dates.” Bull cut him off.

Dorian watched his face for a moment, trying to decide if Bull sounded offended. “I do like feeling special,” he said, when he decided he didn’t. Bull didn’t strike Dorian as the type to feel guilty about his sex life, but it would have been valuable information for Dorian to have. Dorian tried not to look too closely at the way he _was_ a little glad to be special. It was good, he figured, tactically advantageous, to be able to give Bull something most people hadn’t. 

Bull smiled down at him, and Dorian hid behind his glass. The wine wasn’t that bad, really. “You deserve to.” His attention was focused and very intense. Dorian cleared his throat and turned to the stove, where the salmon was sizzling merrily. He could still feel Bull watching him, though, and ignored the slight nervousness he felt creeping up on him.

“I don’t have much experience dating, myself.” He avoided Bull’s eyes. He hadn’t meant to be telling the truth. “Tevinter isn’t always the friendliest place.”

“I’ve heard.” 

Well, Dorian hadn’t made this any less awkward. Not any more romantic, either. 

He turned back to Bull and forced a smile. “Well, that’s all behind me now.” He slid the salmon steaks out of the pan onto a plate. “I hope you’re hungry. I’ve made quite a bit of food.”

“I’ll eat anything.” Dorian glanced sharply up at him, because Bull somehow twisted even _that_ into an innuendo. Bull met his gaze with a smirk. “Just ask Krem,” he continued in a more innocent tone. “One time he and Thom put everything from our fridge in a jar or bottle on a hot dog and paid me ten bucks to eat it. I finished it, strawberry jelly and all.” He looked entirely too proud of himself.

“You’re around too many high schoolers, I think.” Dorian rolled his eyes and handed Bull the plate, picking up the bowl of salad on the counter. “I’m no chef, but I hope this will taste better than that must have.”

“It looks great,” Bull said, and damn it all if Dorian wasn’t charmed by his genuine tone. 

 

Dorian wasn’t really a better cook than Thom or Bull, but he had put a lot of effort into presentation. Bull appreciated it. He appreciated the good food and the candles Dorian lit on the table, and he wondered if he should pull out Dorian’s chair for him.

Dorian had done something with his makeup that made his face sparkle in the candlelight, and his eyes glittered as he smiled at Bull over his wine glass. They talked about nothing for a while, Dorian’s job, the kids at Bull’s school, before the conversation turned towards Tevinter, and what Dorian’s life had been like growing up. That was… difficult for Bull.

Dorian shrugged it off, skirted around the most jagged edges like he hoped Bull didn’t notice them. He looked up at Bull at one point, nervous, and Bull had to reach across the table and hold Dorian’s hand where it curled tight around the stem of his wine glass. Dorian laced his fingers slowly between Bull’s, and something warm curled inside Bull’s chest.

He’d never really understood it, why so many superheroes practically went out of their way to create weak spots like this, why they’d look for someone who needed protection from a nemesis, from the paparazzi, from the truth. He’d never thought it was a very good idea.

But there was something so compelling about Dorian, whose biggest complaints were about annoying customers and the weather and rude women on buses, not broken bones or secret identities. Dorian seemed almost simple, compared to everything else in Bull’s life. There was nothing complicated about the way Dorian smiled at him, or the elegant fingers in his own.

 

“So how _did_ you lose the eye?” Dorian asked. Talking about himself was too shaky; it was too easy to slip up. Bull had a way of making him feel comfortable, like he could tell him anything. It was dangerous.

Bull shrugged. “You know, accidents happen.”

“You lose an eye and an arm and your only response is, ‘accidents happen?’” Dorian was simultaneously scandalized and charmed. 

“I mean, it’s true.”

Dorian frowned. “What sort of ‘accident’ happened?”

“Well, this may shock you to know, Dorian, but I wasn’t always a mild mannered shop teacher.”

Dorian snorted. “Have you ever been a mild mannered anything?”

Bull shrugged and took a bite of his salmon. “Biochemist?” 

“You were a biochemist,” Dorian repeated blankly. “You.” It didn’t match the Bull’s file at all. In fact, part of the reason Dorian had chosen to play a character both less intelligent and more flirtatious than his real self was because of Bull’s file: ten years in the Karasaad, honorable discharge for injury in battle without ever rising to Karasten. A military man. Straightforward, honest, not particularly gifted at anything else. Dorian considered that Bull was probably lying. Then again, nothing else about Bull so far had quite matched his file, either. 

“I was a tissue engineer in Qunadar, actually. I did work on skeletomuscular augmentation.”

“You... created... super soldiers.” Dorian’s knuckles were white on his fork and he thought his potted plant might be floating just a hair above its place on his kitchen windowsill.

“Nah,” said Bull easily. “Mostly just really strong nugs. One time my partner and I drank about a gallon of maraas-lok and she and I decided to juice up a Qabala. _That_ was a crazy night.”

Bull then regaled Dorian with a long and involved story that started with his coworker “liberating” a lab cow and ended with trying to explain a derailed cargo train full of saltpeter to a detachment of the Qunari secret police. 

Dorian couldn’t really follow it. He was far too preoccupied remembering the fact that Bull was a horrible liar, and that even a great liar would have difficulty coming up with a story like that on the spot. Bull’s file was wrong. He was telling the truth.

How had the Magisterium wound up with such profoundly incorrect information? There must be a traitor somewhere in the ranks. (Well, there were a few. But a traitor they didn’t have tabs on was dangerous.) He had to get to the bottom of this.

Dorian put on his most interested face, and leaned forward just a little. “So how does a Qunari scientist wind up teaching high school in Fereldan? Are you spying on their school system? Looking for kids to train as a band of science minions?” He kept his tone light, but at this point, anything was a possibility. “Wait,” he said it like it was a sudden thought, “you’re not in danger, are you? What if the Qun wants you back?”

Bull had leaned forward too, one elbow on the table next to his empty plate. He laughed like Dorian had told a particularly clever joke, but his expression sobered after a moment. He reached across the table again, and took Dorian’s hand the way he had during Dorian’s slightly exaggerated account of his falling out with his father. 

“I’m not in danger, I promise. The Qun have plenty of other scientists to run their experiments, and, well. They let me retire a few years ago. I don’t report to them any more.” _That_ was a lie. Discharge from the military was one thing, but even if Dorian had ever heard of anyone “retiring” from the Qun before, he knew some of Bull’s tells now. Bull looked sincerely at Dorian’s left ear, and his scarred brow twitched down over the eye patch. 

“You’re not old enough to retire.” Was all he said, and he let his disbelief bleed into his tone, though he didn’t move his hand away from Bull’s.

“Well, my lab kinda exploded.”

“ _What_?”

“Qunadar’s the capital, but it’s also right on the coast. Someone snitched the lab location to a Vint raiding party and they tossed a bomb through one of the second story windows. ” Bull shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. “My section was in the basement. Whole damn thing came down on top of me. I got out with a crushed arm and hit in the head by some shrapnel. They stitched me up, and gave me a new arm and an honorable discharge. I left when I was as recovered as I’ll get.”

It wasn’t the whole story, of course. He’d left out the part where his new arm was a marvel of biotech weaponry, and the various other augmentations that likely happened at the same time. Not to mention the fact that Bull had likely designed the serum he was injected with himself. But it explained a few things. He was probably lying about the Qun letting him go, too. That simply wasn’t something the Qun did, any more than the Magisterium. Especially not someone as gifted as Bull was. It occurred to Dorian that Bull was likely the product of generations of careful, loveless breeding and years of developing superior technology and power. It wasn’t the sort of upbringing one could simply walk away from.

They lapsed into silence, and Dorian watched Bull across the table. The surface story, the one Bull the civilian was telling Dorian the civilian, required a response.

Dorian stood up and walked around the table, and Bull watched him carefully, but didn’t move. He held still when Dorian ran a hand over his shoulder, starting at the point where the prosthetic attached to his muscle, and brought his fingers up across Bull’s neck to brush them gently over the left side of his face. “I’m sorry that happened to you,” Dorian said quietly. Bull watched his face, and Dorian wasn’t sure what he saw when he traced the scars that dug heavily through Bull’s eye and cheek.

Bull covered Dorian’s hand with his own after a moment, and there was something quiet and vulnerable there as they stared at each other. Bull slowly brought Dorian’s hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to Dorian’s knuckles, then to his palm, then the inside of his wrist. Dorian pulled in a soft breath at the contact, pulse suddenly jumping, and his mind was briefly empty of everything except the softness of Bull’s lips, the bright focus of his eye on Dorian’s.

Then he remembered he had a goal, here. He stepped closer, and Bull’s face tipped up towards him. The kiss was softer than Dorian meant it to be, and quicker, just a soft press of lips. Bull’s eye slid closed, and he stroked Dorian’s hand, unbearably tender, unforgivably kind. 

Dorian pulled back, and Bull smiled up at him, wide and unabashed. It made Dorian’s heart ache a little, though he ignored it. “I don’t mind it so much now,” Bull said, with that same frustrating sincerity he brought out at the moments when it was least convenient for Dorian to find him endearing. “Not if it gets me this.”

Dorian snorted. “You’re terrible.”

“Yep. Genuine supervillain, that’s me.” Bull stood up, and all the space in the room was gone. He was pressed right up against Dorian, forcing him to tip his head back to keep eye contact. His wide hands were on Dorian’s upper arms, holding him close. Dorian wondered if he ought to feel unsafe, knowing what those hands could do to solid metal, he’d seen Bull throw a _car_ , for Maker’s sake, but he didn’t. Couldn’t.

Bull leaned down towards him, and Dorian watched his face until he was too close to see. He surrendered to the feeling of Bull’s mouth in the space of a heartbeat, not able to keep up his pretense when Bull’s scarred, gentle lips opened against him, and he leaned into Bull with his entire self. Bull’s uninjured hand slid up his arm to cup the back of his head, tilting it back just enough, and the other pressed against the middle of his back, holding him close.

Dorian clung to Bull’s shoulders for balance, and to the feeling that Bull was so focused on _him_ , just on him, close and intense. He ignored the whisper in the back of his mind that it wasn’t really him Bull thought he was kissing, but a less complicated version. A Dorian made up for the express purpose of falling in love with. He scraped his nails over the back of Bull’s neck, making him groan against Dorian’s mouth.

“Do you think,” Dorian said, a little breathlessly, “that we should move this to the bedroom?” 

“What about the plates?” Bull actually glanced over his shoulder at the table, and Dorian felt vaguely offended that he wasn’t the center of attention any more. 

“Oh, I’ll take care of that later,” he wasn’t planning on washing them by _hand_ , after all. “I’m much more interested in what we’re doing now.” He ran a hand down Bull’s chest enticingly.

Bull caught it before it went anywhere interesting. “About that,” he said, and Dorian’s offended feeling sharpened considerably. It shouldn’t be this difficult to seduce the Bull, even if Dorian had not been entirely correct in his previous estimation of him. He was sure the Bull was attracted to him, so why wasn’t he taking what Dorian was offering? “We’re moving pretty fast, aren’t we?”

Dorian frowned at him. “Was that not where we were going with this?”

“No, no, it is…” Dorian waited, not particularly patiently, but he did wait. He watched Bull work out what he was trying to say. “I meant what I said earlier, about wanting this to be special,” was what he finally came up with. “I don’t want to rush into anything without--”

Dorian squinted at Bull. “Are you implying that having sex somehow cheapens a relationship?” That was both completely unexpected and rather off-putting.

“No.” It wasn’t tactically useful information, but Dorian was surprised to learn that the Iron Bull could _whine_. “Vashedan, Dorian, I’m just trying to say I want to talk about it first.”

Dorian instinctively shied away from that idea, but, he realized, any sort of long-term information-gathering endeavor would require regular conversations of all sorts. He should probably just get used to it. He nodded decisively. “I suppose that’s fair. But will this conversation take all night?” He looked up at Bull through his eyelashes.

Bull chuckled, and Dorian relaxed, marginally. “Hopefully not.” Bull’s hand came up and cupped Dorian’s cheek gently, and Dorian was once again the sole focus of Bull’s intense attention. “Look, I really like you a lot, and I want us to be on the same page about what this is, okay?”

Mission accomplished! Well, aside from the original definition of the mission, the actual gathering of information, and a few other slight... complications. “Okay.” Dorian nodded and put his hand over Bull’s, stroking his rough fingers with a light touch. “I was envisioning something…” Dorian swallowed. Envisioning was so close to wanting, so very different from having. “Something lasting. More of this, more of tonight.”

Bull smiled. “Dating?” He suggested, and Dorian nodded, cheeks unreasonably warm. “A relationship.” Bull continued, grin growing. “Going out to dinner and movies, walking you home from work, but maybe holding hands or something. Being a couple.” 

Dorian clenched his fist until his nails bit sharply against his palm. He wished his hands were sweaty. He wished, quite irrationally, that his elevated heart rate would give him away. He wished there was no map of Ferelden in his guest room. 

“I’ve never had a boyfriend before.” Dorian said, and it sounded shyer than he’d intended, but it was the truth. He ignored the bitter twist of knowing that it was his carefully constructed, completely mundane, alter ego that actually had the boyfriend.

The Bull still kissed him.

 

A dark figure perched on a roof nearby, cape snapping in the stiff breeze coming off the river. A dark mask covered everything of his head except for his scowl. He came this way almost every night he patrolled the city, and he had taken note of the new light in the window on the third floor. All his instincts told him there was something wrong, and this new development wasn’t putting him any more at ease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How many people are lying in this chapter? Well, the *super mysterious* Vesper (who could he be??), and Bull ("retired from the Qun" yeah RIGHT), and Dorian (this one's a double whammy-- he's lying to Bull AND to himself), and maybe Varric too, just by being himself... so that's 100%. This is good and fine and everyone is happy and healthy and now A is a liar too!

**Author's Note:**

> Say hi to U at [Eugenideswalksintoabar](http://eugenideswalksintoabar.tumblr.com) and A at [Acheesecakewrites](http://acheesecakewrites.tumblr.com)


End file.
